


Old Gods

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Immortality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: There is an old legend in the mountains, where food is scarce, and people are battle-worn. Where the trees are evergreen and thickly-clustered, and firelight does not penetrate the thick cloak of darkness for more than a meter outside the home.It is the legend of the monster, and the Wandering Man.





	Old Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SparkySheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkySheep/gifts).



> because mobile formatting on tumblr was bothering me and because I have no self control, I expanded on a prompt I was given:
> 
> "Oh god please do hannigram with the “you never could have won against me it’s not you’re fault” thing. P l e a s e. That kind of tender cruelty is exactly Hannibal’s thing and you would be so amazing writing it"

There is an old legend in the mountains, where food is scarce, and people are battle-worn. Where the trees are evergreen and thickly-clustered, and firelight does not penetrate the thick cloak of darkness for more than a meter outside the home.

It is the legend of the monster, and the Wandering Man.

The snow is thick, and there is a single set of footprints but each step has two different depths, too different shapes. The monster treads lightly, with thin feet sharply clawed and stretching in front of it. Behind the monster, the man follows, hunting, steps within steps because he knows the monster will not lead him astray. Between them, pulsing, a thin red string connects, as fine and delicate as a single thread of silk, yet when one of them pulls, it is heavy as chains.

'If you don't pay attention', the elders say, 'you might become entwined with them. For just a moment, until the monster stops, or the man catches up, and you are devoured whole'.

'Oh', another will whisper, eyes shining in firelight and expression dark and dazed, 'but what a moment of euphoria that must be'.

 

 

This one is not like the others.

He’s older, to start. The men that have come before could not be called more than boys – still fresh of face, their skin snow-white and flushed, muscles too tender, fingers too slim. They had held neither the hardened steel nor the calm of a seasoned warrior. Foolish men, frantic men, oracles of gods long-dead, have chosen to believe that youth and innocence will disarm the beast and break the curse.

This one, though…

He sighs, and feels almost disappointed when the man falls. To his knees, to his wrists, the sword that is much like every other sword every ‘Chosen One’ has taken up gleaming in the moonlight. There is blood on his blade, and it shines black and thick like pitch.

A single groan, weak and shaken, curls around in the air, no more solid than a wisp of smoke, and the monster sighs again, turns to glare down at the freckles of pale light amidst the vast darkness of the valley. They keep sending these boys, these men, and the monster is the only well-fed one out of the lot of them.

Another weak sound, another crisp crush of snow under hands and knees, and the monster leans down and takes the man’s face. Feels his exhale, panting and puffed up like the smoke of a dead fire. Gently, gently touches him, claws curled naturally behind ears, into thick, dark hair, under a jawline that is stronger than his predecessor’s skill with a blade. Eyes the color of winter skies, rimmed with red from effort and tears forced by biting wind.

The monster sighs, once more, and curses foolish men and oracles.

“Shh,” he says, and his arms come forward to wrap around the man. There is heat here, and the man lets out a sound that is foolishly trusting, heavy with surrender, and collapses into the monster’s arms. In the blackened chest of the monster’s body shines a single, red point of light.

They say to take the monster's heart will bring about the end of winter, and to destroy it means winter will never come again. They say a lot of things.

“It’s alright,” the monster breathes, claws and long fingers sinking deep into beautiful, warm curls. He breathes in greedily, tastes mint and lemongrass and pomegranate seeds. Wintry things, sharp things, that sting his tongue and make his hands shake. “I’m so proud of you. You made it farther than all the rest.”

The man trembles again, knuckles white as the snow, eyes the same burnished and brilliant shine of frozen lips and fresh steel. He tries to rise, but it is too cold, and his legs are spasming and there is a deep, deep drag of claws through his chest. He parts his lips like he must do it to breathe, and blood pools out, bright and fresh.

“It was cruel of them,” the monster says. He has stopped gloating about it now, stopped gloating after the third boy, the fifth, the twentieth. There is no pleasure in it and hasn’t been for years. “You could never have defeated me. It’s not your fault.”

The man’s back convulses, and the monster nuzzles his sweat-sweet hair, sighs again, and tightens his arms around the man’s back. He can, at least, make his final moments peaceful.

“That’s enough now,” the monster says. “Rest.”

But then, the man snarls, and grabs his sword. Not by the handle, he is too weak to lift it, but by the blade, so it slices deep into his palm. The monster blinks, surprised at the spike of new blood in his nose, but cannot fall back before the man plunges a hand into the shadow around its heart, where the light shines. Strong fingers, wetted with blood, soak into the monster’s exposed radiance, and the monster pulls back, eyes wide, and looks down to see a bitter, triumphant snarl and teeth soaked in red.

“I will find you again,” the man says, breathes it, and laughs. “I will fight you again.”

The monster trembles, and feels the cold in the man’s fingers settle into his heart. It feels like a blade. It feels like death, and hunger.

And yet, despite his shock, despite the bitter ice of blood magic as it fills his veins and tugs him, inevitably, along in the wake of this man’s death, he smiles. He cups the man’s face and draws him close again, lets the man cling and clutch at him, squeeze his heart to a smoldering ruin.

The monster cannot die. Ideas like hunger and famine and death never die.

“You will never win,” he says. "Winter will come again."

“It doesn’t matter,” the man replies. His free hand, shaking, rises up, latches onto the back of the monster’s neck, and he is pulled close and tastes blood when the man kisses him – claims his heart, claims his mouth, between the frantic rush of blood and the cool, unfeeling cover of the snow.

 

 

Here, the legend of the Wandering Man was made. Children swap stories and housewives tell tales of the monster with black horns and golden eyes. They say, ‘Do not go out at night’, they say ‘Do not venture into the mountains during the winter’.

‘If you see the Man, do not give him food, do not give him shelter. The monster is possessive of his beloved and will kill you for your kindness’.

The monster lurks, and in his shadow comes the Wandering Man, with eyes like days where there is both lightning and snow, and in one hand he holds a sword, and in the other, the monster’s beating heart. Blood flows freely from his palm, around the handle of his sword, in a wound that will never heal, and connects to the heart, and through it, to the monster.

And he chases, and hunts, following blood trails and fallen feathers.

In the silence of ice and sleep, the monster calls, 'My darling, my love, have you come to return my heart?’ and the man smiles, and uses the monster’s adoration to keep his hands warm.

He keeps chasing, keeps hunting, through the trees and through the snow. And the monster laughs, and runs, and when the man finally catches him, they collapse together and fall and die again. The first flower blooms when the monster breathes his last.

It is the only way, it has been said, that spring comes. Before the man, there was one hundred years of winter. And winter comes again, when the man is weak – he will never win, they say, he could never possibly succeed. It cannot be spring forever.

“I will find you again,” the man says, as he pulls the new heart from the monster and bites it, sheds blood, and feeds the flesh with an adoring kiss into the monster’s mouth. “I will fight you again.”

And the monster laughs, saying, “You’re doing beautifully.” They kiss, and tremble, and bleed out new warmth into the snow, causing the first thaw, the first tentative breath of spring. “And I am proud to call you mine.”

 

 

That is the legend of the monster and the Wandering Man. But it is only a legend. Time passes, elders die and hearths are destroyed. A famine, a war, pushes the simple folk East, where there are things like cities and kings.

On the top of the mountain, smoke lies heavy, fog and snow sitting in thick enough weight to make the trees bow, and the man emerges from the mist, sword in hand, and gazes down impassively to the ruined remains of the village he once called home.

The wind touches him like a child tugging at his sleeve, and he tilts his head, turns it, shivers as the monster appears at his side.

He does not look. He knows the monster's shape, now, would know him in the silent heartbeat of the Earth, would know him by the rotation of the sun and the stars. He would know his shadow, black amidst black, just as he knows the taste of his flesh and the low rasp of his voice.

The man is hungry. He is always hungry when winter comes.

Beside him, the monster sighs, and its long claws curl in the red string of lifeblood between them, and he tugs enough that the man's empty hand twitches, flexing, and their fingers lace.

"We will not bring spring here, this time," the monster says.

Though it is not a question, the man nods. The seasons have been obedient to them for a thousand years, but now there are no more shrines, no more prayers and hopes, no more fearful gazes turned towards the mountains and a tremble in the air when he passes. The Wandering Man is a shadow, now, and strikes fear where he goes, for they used to know that when he was seen, the monster was not far behind.

But there are no more believers now. They have all been slaughtered or moved away.

He smiles.

"Let the winter come," he says, and the wind picks up around him, tossing his hair and turning his cheeks pale. The monster growls. "Let them all starve for what they have done to our people."

The monster laughs. "Our people, my love?"

"I was one of them, once." The words are not said with longing, nor with regret. The Wandering Man has no place in his hallowed breast for such things. He turns his head to meet the monster's golden eyes, tilts, and smiles. His eyes drop to the glow of the monster's new heart, regrown in the wake of summer rain and autumn chill. The trees, evergreen in places, barren in others, shiver when their eyes lock.

"My heart is still yours, beloved," the monster says, cupping his cheek with their red-tangled hands. Blood, always-flowing, smears on the man's cheek. "If you will not eat it here, we must find other ways to sate your hunger."

The man hums, and sets his sight on the smoldering ruin of the village again. Despite the many years, it has not grown. It will never grow again.

"There is nothing for us, here," the man says, and lets their hands fall, but they do not part. He squeezes, gently, and then tugs his hand free. He turns, and finds a patch of dead earth under the heavy and wide span of an evergreen, which has been harvested for firewood so the branches only start to jut at head-height. He bows, and grips his sword in both hands, thrusting it into the wet ground with a grunt.

The monster tilts his head.

"Will you take up your sword again?" he asks, as the man returns to his side.

The man smiles, cups his face, and kisses the monster. Feels sharp teeth and lifeblood settle in him, tastes it in the kiss, and the monster is purring when they part.

"Come with me," he says, and steps away, letting their red silk strand unravel, letting it grow taut as he begins his trek down the mountain. "We will show them what it means to live with monsters and men like us."

 

 

The snow is thick, and there is a single set of footprints but each step has two different depths, too different shapes. The man's steps are heavy, booted and wide and crushing the snow to ice beneath his feet. Behind him, the monster treads lightly, with thin feet sharply clawed and stretching in front of it.

Between them, pulsing, a single red string connects. It does not tighten, and pull either of them. In this, they are one and the same.

It takes many years of unrelenting snow, of freezing rain and unforgiving ice. When they are finished bringing their reckoning, they feast and kiss over the bodies of the invading soldiers, and build a monument to the village that was and never will be again. Years from now, it might be found, and the man will reappear to take up his sword once more.

The winter lasts for another hundred years, and at the end, the man kneels before the monster.

"Take my heart," he breathes. He is bare and coated with blood, and it shines black in the moonlight. The monster touches him with reverent hands and claws dig in. The monster bows, and tears the man's heart from his chest, and from his body runs fonts and rivers of blood, coloring the ground.

When the monster bites, so too does the man into his own offering, and they share smiles as their hearts merge. From the first beat of it, warmth pulses, touching the snow, touching the trees. They shiver in the light of the moon, and the Earth exhales, ready to thaw again.

The monster pushes the man's heart back into his chest, sighs and smiles when the man rises, a new creature now, of blood and bone and unrelenting hunger. In the vast ruin of their hunt, they are warm, and there is a string connecting the monster's hand to the man's heart, now – they are conjoined, each a loop of the other, and the monster's horns fall, the glow in its eyes fade.

The man smiles. "Do you see?" he whispers, cupping the monster's face. "You are human now."

"And you are monstrous, beloved," the monster replies. He looks like a man, but no less beautiful for it.

"It's time to let the seasons have their fun again," the man says. "There is nothing here for us, now."

And the monster smiles. "Where shall we go?"

The man returns it, wide, showing the blood settled heavy in his mouth. "Let us follow our people," he says, and laces their hands, ties their strings together – one red, deep and dark as embers, the other lighter, as fresh blood is when it first leaves the body. "It is time they remembered to be afraid of the dark."

 

 

This is the legend of the monster and the Wandering Man. They are ever-vigilant, always prowling. And they are hungry.


End file.
